SCARBOR ISLAND (YA Speculative Thriller)


Scarbor Island


Jackie Jones


YA Speculative Thriller

Word Count:

69,000 words


As a black woman from Barbados in the Caribbean, I’d like to submit my diverse YA speculative thriller SCARBOR ISLAND, complete at 69,000 words.

When seventeen-year-old Trinidadian Cyra rescues a drowning man with deep ties to the supernatural realm, Scarbor Island becomes a playground for nightmarish creatures with no qualms about picking off inmates one by one. Cyra soon discovers that the stranger she saved is behind the games, trying to find those strong enough to become permanent residents on what he calls his island, for a twisted menagerie.

As mortal numbers decrease and the dark realm closes in, Cyra and other survivors can’t seem to get past their differences to band together and attempt escaping the island. With few she can trust, Cyra must rely on her wits and resilience to stay alive, or be forever lost to the rest of the world.

SCARBOR ISLAND’s nonlinear narrative is loosely based on the African folktale The Ape, the Snake, and the Lion, and features a revamped version of “Papa Bois”—a popular character in Caribbean folklore. The story combines the urgency of Prison Break with the supernatural vibe of Lost, and features a multi-ethnic cast facing a myriad of dark dilemmas. It is standalone with series potential.

Under the pen-name “Jackie Jones” my self-published NA speculative thriller series “The Wardens Series Season One” was optioned for film in late 2015, short piece “Diary of a Punching Bag” is featured in the anthology Senseisha: Memoirs of the Caribbean Woman, and another in ArtsEtc Winning Words Anthology 2013/2014. I am also the recipient of multiple Barbadian literary awards.

First 300 words:

Breadfruit trees were a blur of thick vegetation as I ran. I pressed a hand down hard on my side, still blood escaped through the creases of my fingers. Maintaining speed was becoming more difficult when coupled with the need to breathe. One or the other, my body screamed, but I knew I couldn’t stop.

My pursuers crashed through the bush behind me, macaw palms slowing their progress. The leaves’ sharp edges nipped at my bare legs and arms, leaving behind nature’s version of paper cuts. They stung, the chorus line behind a knife wound that had upgraded from a trickle, to a steady stream. I tried not to focus on it, even though with each new jolt as my feet found the muddy ground, pain spread across my torso with a rapidity that almost took my breath away. Almost.

“Give up Gaps, stop now.” From Avery’s shout, I put him at less than a quarter mile away. They could probably see me now and even if they couldn’t, the trail of blood I’d left smeared along the tall grass, was sure to give them an edge. I imagined him and the others their faces painted, pitchforks raised above their heads. It was stupid imagery and I chanced a glance back. Avery was sans paint and weapons, dark hair flopping into his face.

He’d led the charge for my capture from the beginning, unwilling to let the past be or see the real danger of our predicament. Instead he revelled in his almighty psychopathic vengeance and right now, I was his main target.

“You’re not going to get away,” he taunted, closer still. His assessment wasn’t far from mine, but I had to try.


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